


Without Another One

by silver9mm



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alexithymia, Angst, Anxiety, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blowjobs, Breathplay, Cheating, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, First Time, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Safeword, Not Britpicked, Pining, Spanking, Suicidal Ideation, circa 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/pseuds/silver9mm
Summary: One second more, two, three, and James said, “Why are you here?”Richard’s nerves sizzled up the back of his neck and he laughed, but James didn’t, so he stifled himself and tried, “Because you told me to come?”“And if I’d told you to walk into traffic, you’d’ve done it?”That should’ve been funny but wasn’t, and they both knew it. Richard sucked a breath through his teeth, then the last of his smoke, casting about for a can.Another hard snap, definitely aimed at him. Richard dropped his cigarette butt on the ground between them. He almost put his hands on his hips but he couldn’t muster up even fake confidence to go with the pose. He clenched his fists at his sides and hoped he surprised James with his glaring side-eye and a peevish, “Maybe I would have.”
Relationships: Richard Hammond/James May
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	Without Another One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreaminblue67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminblue67/gifts).



“Hammond, there you are.” James blustered by him, tone conversational. Tapped the back of his hand against Richard’s arm as he went. _C’mon, mate._ So he followed James, habit making him scan their heels and check the door was closed. Unhappy shrubs blocked the view and a little wind from James’ smoking corner.

“Traffic all right?”

“Wha—yeah. Not bad. Thanks.” Richard accepted a cigarette and squinted into the provided fire instead of past it, at James.

“Wilman stall you for a rewrite?”

“A bit.” Richard gestured at nothing and stepped back to look at his Porsche. He actually had no idea what the drive over had been like, or even what Jeremy had been cackling too long about in Andy’s ear. He hadn’t heard a word, registered a stop in—days, really. Not tasted anything, or slept without his heart racing—hadn’t bothered with food or sleep in forty-eight hours, anyway. He couldn’t, not with

James, watching him.

Richard looked at his own shoes. Half his fag was gone. He waved it over his shoulder, towards the door. “How’s—”

A loud snap made him start. Pronounced blue veins on the back of James’ hand, along the pale underside of his wrist, disappeared up the sleeve of one of his least offensive shirts. Untucked, open at the collar, and Richard thought that tan leather jacket actually looked quite decent on him.

“Did you remember something?” he wryly suggested.

“No.”

James’ other hand moved, lured Richard to James’ face. Dry lips held the cigarette. He kept a hand to it, stopping the tips of his hair from catching on the cherry. It caught his eyes, though, tiny twin infernos flaring for one solid second. Richard didn’t look away, after.

One second more, two, three, and James said, “Why are you here?”

Richard’s nerves sizzled up the back of his neck and he laughed, but James didn’t, so he stifled himself and tried, “Because you told me to come?”

“And if I’d told you to walk into traffic, you’d’ve done it?”

That should’ve been funny but wasn’t, and they both knew it. Richard sucked a breath through his teeth, then the last of his smoke, casting about for a can.

Another hard snap, definitely aimed at him. Richard dropped his cigarette butt on the ground between them. He almost put his hands on his hips but he couldn’t muster up even fake confidence to go with the pose. He clenched his fists at his sides and hoped he surprised James with his glaring side-eye and a peevish, “Maybe I would have.”

A tick of an eyebrow, the tightening of that petulant mouth, and James blinked rapidly, the setting sun cutting a gold slash across his cheek. He glanced out over the low wall for no reason, and Richard was weirdly anxious to have that attention back, regretting his temper. Like always.

James’ cigarette joined Richard’s on the leaf-littered brick and he ground it out with his heel and then took two steps into Richard’s space to step on his, just in case, but he didn’t retreat. Richard could feel the heat of him on his own face, his hands. He ducked his head, if only to be in James’ warm shadow for a moment.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” James rumbled, low and quiet and maybe…maybe a little desperate. And for some reason, that helped. Neither of them wanted to talk about stupid shit or act as if Richard hadn’t touched him _like that_ three days ago.

“I wonder if you want me here, or just didn’t expect me to show.”

“I was certain you would, actually. And I do. We have to work this out, don’t we?”

Richard’s bottom lip throbbed between his teeth. “Suppose we do,” he murmured and then because he _really_ was, all of sudden he was

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, James.”

He heard James inhale loudly, slowly. “Thank you. I thought for a moment I was going to have to put you through the window. You can’t come at me like that. I don’t want a row.”

“I don’t, either!” God, why did he sound like such a baby? He wouldn’t fight James, wasn’t trying to _then_ , he just hadn’t known how else to make himself understood. He wanted to cover his face but James was so close; Richard wouldn’t risk touching him, even accidentally, not yet, and…and he didn’t want James to move _away_ , thinking he needed distance. Never close enough; now, right here, standing before this man—his _friend_ who, who…at least could _guess_ at some of it—Richard had never been nearer to existing as a whole person.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he repeated and lifted his eyes to James’. Wanted him to _see_ how sorry he was, and that he could—he _would_

be good _._

That thought shocked them both somehow, rocking James back on his heels, Richard’s heart kicking so hard he gasped and one sort-of reached for the other. James actually caught Richard’s jacket and held on and oh, his knees weren’t doing what they ought to be, were they?

“—all right,” he heard and nodded agreeably, but James still held his jacket and Richard gazed down at those fingers bunched in the canvas, then at the man himself. He was looking too, like it was a curiosity not of his making.

“Go inside,” James said and flattened his fingers, smoothed Richard’s jacket down, pressed his fingertips for a heartbeat or three he must’ve felt in Richard’s tight chest.

Richard nodded again and tried his feet, found them functional enough and anyway he floated more than anything over to the door. He half-expected the doorknob to shrink back like a dolly zoom, but it was solid cold brass in his palm. He looked for James; still standing near-to-where Richard just was, a new cigarette between his fingers, eyes narrowed to the point Richard didn’t know if James was watching him or glaring into space, if he was seeing anything at all, and it was a little unnerving. He opened the door.

James was _such_ a bachelor. Papers, old magazines, a fucking typewriter, cups with an inch of scummy tea curdling in them, and motorcycle parts any which way Richard looked. He smiled to himself; the first time he’d been here, he’d dashed from table to shelf to countertop, crowing over all the old bike bits. James tailed him nervously, embarrassed, but Richard’s enthusiasm settled him eventually. Hours had been spent discussing motorcycles and then the four Honda engines Richard discovered in the garage. Whiskey came out, and they lounged in James’ surprisingly comfortable (if salvaged) armchairs and picked each other’s brains until they were both addled and the sun wasn’t far off from the horizon. They managed a few hours of sleep—Richard right there on the couch, though James had offered to make up a bed for him. Richard actually would’ve gotten _more_ if he’d gone all the way home instead of asking James to let him crash because they had to be on-set wretchedly early the next day and James was the only one sensible enough to live close to the studio—and Jeremy had razzed them appropriately (and offered gum because, “You both reek. Were you spitting Black Label into each other’s mouths all night?”). But Richard hadn’t cared about the hangover or the teasing. He’d had _fun_ with James— _just_ James, and he’d gotten a thrill that James had let him rummage about his home; he’d even caught James’ tight, reluctant smile a few times below those glowering eyes.

There were new things to see, too—was that a bike _in_ the _bathroom_? But…that wasn’t why he was here. This wasn’t a work-related sleepover, and Richard definitely hadn’t been _invited._ James had caught him on the way to Wilman’s desk; stepped in front of him and simply told him what to do.

“You’ll come to my place after you’re off.”

He’d goldfished for a moment, but Richard had paid out and was now getting his return, so he closed his mouth and nodded.

“You _will_.” If there was doubt, James picked a perfect spot to hide it from Richard in the shadows behind the backdrops where he couldn’t quite see James’ expression, and three seasons in, James had learned to control his tone somewhat. It was a command, and James moved a few inches to let Richard go about his business once he’d said, “Yeah, James, I will. I will.”

And here he was and he very well knew the reason. He’d apologised but still felt penitent, and not only that…wholly undeserving of James’ patience and tolerance. Another man might have killed him for what he’d done, or worse.

Richard knew he could stop what was happening. He could tell James, ‘Sorry, mate. I got carried away, let’s never mind it,’ and James would give him a look and most likely avoid him for a while and probably definitely never let him stay over again and that would be fine. Except

it _wouldn’t._

James knew Richard’s secret now—a whole handful of them, really. And he was curious, at the very least. He hadn’t killed Richard, hadn’t told him to fuck directly off, hadn’t made fun of him or broadcast it. James hadn’t told _Mindy._

An icy chill skated down Richard’s spine and he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and a few steps further into the house, then sank to his knees in front of James’ preferred chair. Ass on the heels of his Converse, he resisted the urge to cross his arms or stuff his hands in his pockets and actually—he shouldered out of his jacket, twisting around to toss it on the couch behind him, then he settled back down and waited.

His lips, the tips of his fingers were tingling. He’d been completely numb last Saturday; maybe his body’s defence against potential violence, which was absurd because

because that’s what he _wanted_.

And James had given it to him that day. Ground the bones in Richard’s hand together, twisted his wrist painfully (but not before Richard had _felt_ him: hot and heavy and thick). Had swooped down and jabbed a thumb against his carotid artery, curled the stony tips of his fingers into Richard’s spine. He’d wanted to gasp but couldn’t; not until he’d been thrown back, catching himself clumsily on his now one good hand and James had slapped him. Fucking hard, too; Richard’s ears rang for a second but the headache lingered for an hour. Oh, he’d relished that pain, and even more so the way James had stood over him, visibly shaking—but James hadn’t been angry. Richard somehow _knew_ that. Startled, confounded; scrambling for what the next move should be.

Bless James’ quick thinking, too, because Richard hadn’t thought that far ahead. Hell, he hadn’t even thought through what he’d _done._ It was _act now_ or walk out of the house, get on his motorcycle and drive head-on into the biggest tree at speed. He’d known he was going to—to do what he did to James but hadn’t planned it out, didn’t mean for it to happen when it did, _where_ it did: where he lived with his _wife_ and their _babies_

and maybe a thought had formed as he’d knelt there in front of James…what to do if James did nothing, rebuffed him, outed him, broke his nose

motorcycle, speed, tree.

And he was _ready_. Maybe he’d moved, his face had done a thing; his eyes. James might have seen it, staring like he was, because he snatched Richard from the floor by his arm, then that already-sore wrist, and slung him around and back, away from the bright windows and the drive Mindy would be coming up before too long.

He’d yelped, scared and thrilled, and then moaned when his back hit the wall in the hallway and he’d taken a breath to—to cry _James_ , bleat _oh fuck yes_ , beg _don’t stop_ , but James’ hand was a vice around his neck, his own stupidly batting hands caught and crushed between them because James had used his whole body to shove him, now pinned him with it.

“What are you _doing_? You fucking _idiot_.”

“I-I—”

“ _Shut up_.”

And James fucking hit him again. Spread-open fingers, cupped palm, not any kind of a proper slap—just bashed his hand against the left side of Richard’s face.

“No—Mindy—” Richard managed, but James got it because he said, “It won’t show. My mother slapped me all the time.” Said it mean, betrayed; like _he_ was hurt by this somehow and Richard wanted to understand that but he wanted

 _this_. God, he wanted it.

He slid his eyes up-over to James’, trying for—for openness, for

 _Please_ , he screamed inside, at James, and those fingers tightened ( _they_ would bruise, so faintly, but he’d searched the mirror until he found them, two penny-sized brown circles pressed into his throat)

and James’ other hand joined the first—collaring him, and those words together _like that_

James lifted him. Richard tried not to kick, planted one foot back flat against the wall but that didn’t help and he had to grab James’ arms or his neck would break—it wouldn’t, but Richard didn’t know that, didn’t know what James was _doing_ , or more importantly, _why_ , what _he_ wanted—but Richard wanted him to have it, so even though he struggled

he needed _practice_ ; _training_

he kept his eyes on James’ and blinked once, slow, like a cat, and James dropped him. Stepped back enough to let Richard stagger but not fall; even caught him when he pitched forward, a handful of his chest muscles grabbed, squeezed, pinned him again and held him there

his heart beating in James’ hand

right where James had touched him earlier, outside.

James backed away, left Richard sprawled there against the wall. Richard thought he would leave completely, flee from him and _this_ but of course, he hadn’t. He nearly killed Richard anyway, though, when he said, “We’re not doing this.”

That touched heart _stopped._

“Not here,” James finished, and that was definitely one of Richard’s lives gone. His throat hurt when he swallowed, rasped, “What—”

James’ face twisted into something furious. “ _Fuck. Shut up!_ ” was snarled at him and a very long time later, Richard would count that he didn’t flinch when James reached for him again as one of his braver moments. James got a handful of Richard’s hair, at the back, the only place it was long enough to hold onto and

_goddamn Wilman for making him cut it all off_

he was wrenched to one side, his spine crackling as he went the way James yanked him, held him sideways, and propelled him down the hallway. Nearly hit Richard with the front door opening it, and only then did James let go of his hair. Richard scrambled outside, knowing he _should_ , that it was too much for James right now, alone with him in the house, but not for long.

James had a cigarette out and lit before Richard could even turn, and two fingers holding it jabbed in his direction. “Are you leaving her? Is that what this is?”

“What, _no_. No, James—”

“I’ll not be dragged into it. If you’re leaving her, _don’t_ involve me.”

“I’m _not_ —I won’t, I swear! That _isn’t_ —”

“Richard. Shut up.” James looked away from him; anywhere else. Silence—other than the birds chirping, cars on the lane, the wind, the whole rest of the world being normal, but for them. He stood still, waited. James smoked his cigarette and lit another, distant, and Richard finally decided it was okay if he fished his pack off the rail behind him. As soon as he moved though, James said, “You’ll explain yourself. But not here. This is done. Pull your shit together before she comes back, and we’ll sort it out at my place, yeah?”

Richard hummed affirmatively, nodded, made his head throb extra, and he’d fumbled his pack, almost dropped it, did knock his lighter down into the lavender and couldn’t find it because his eyes were wet, blurry, and then James was close again, lighter out and lit. Richard glanced his eyes off James’ as he leaned in.

“I’ll have the little black one, I think,” James said and no one else would listen hard enough to hear the tremor in his voice but Richard.

“Oh, aye?” His own could only make noises, but it was a start.

That little black one was nowhere to be seen in James’ house, currently. Cats— _smart_ cats, anyway—tended to know when to take cover, so Richard was only a tiny bit disappointed not to catch a glimpse of it.

A rattle behind him and the reality of the situation came sharply back into focus and Richard took one last deep breath in the

 _before_ , _while there was still time._

“Is that where you want to be?” James asked and Richard almost stiffened…but that’s the way James was, when he wasn’t maiming words written for him. Asking questions _constantly._ Richard secretly loved it because he learned things he didn’t know he didn’t know, and not that he was embarrassed to ask questions in the first place, but it was nice to let someone else be a bother once in a while.

“I… It seemed the right thing.”

A little sniff from James, then the sound of his jacket joining Richard’s on the couch. A slight pause, as if James had to muster up something of his own, but he was as stone-faced as ever when he took his seat in front of Richard.

“It is. I would have made you do it anyway.”

_made you_

That something with Richard’s face again and it ached, unfamiliar—he’d always been too expressive, but he’d kept _this_ under wraps for thirty years.

And if he had to do it for one more second—it was too much, a physical pressure inside himself, ready to cause an aneurysm, an ulcer, fucking cancer.

James shifted, lifted his head, dropped one shoulder down and Richard did the same, automatic, not realising he’d curled into himself until James reminded him. They did this on set—Jeremy had pointed it out, called them monkeys and went on about ‘mirror neurons’ until Andy told him to can it because it made for easy blocking, kept them in-shot together often enough. Jeremy shut up, but there was annoyance in his eyes, like he’d lost a puzzle piece up the vacuum or something.

So, Richard straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, looked at James—maybe not in the eye—but his mouth, okay, that was doable; and James put his elbows on his knees, though his hands fluttered like he wanted to clasp them together. He didn’t; made the same choice Richard had to not to be closed off.

Richard still jumped slightly at James’, “That’s what you want: to be made to do things. That’s it, isn’t it? Basically?”

“Um. I-I don’t—it’s… There’s more…to it—”

Heightened fluttering and James leaned back in his chair. “How much more?”

“I don’t…know.”

“How can you not know? What am I missing? You grabbed my cock, you’re on your knees _again_ , you—it can’t just be about blowing me. Why the theatrics?”

Richard frowned at that. _Theatrics_. It _wasn’t_ —but it really was. A role. Role- _playing_. But it didn’t feel like that, not to him… He knew that’s how it would be seen. At first, anyway.

He couldn’t breathe enough to explain himself was the problem at the moment, though.

“You didn’t fight back when I hurt you.”

Richard had nothing to argue against. He looked at those fidgeting hands, then away. God, he _was_ an idiot, just like James had said. This was all so fucking stupid and pointless and he wished he had _never_ —that he _wasn’t_

but he had, and he was…whatever this was.

There was only one way to not be just as he was.

He could at least _try_ this, first.

He couldn’t remember what James had said, if it was a question to be answered, so he just blinked at him again. James studied him, eyes like camera lenses, going narrow to round and back, then he flicked a pointed tongue over his upper lip and said, “Would you fight back if I did the same to you _now_?”

Right.

Richard had to swallow twice to get out, “I wouldn’t.”

James made a considering noise, resting his cheek against his knuckles for a long moment. Then: “Let me start over. And I want you to speak up if I get something wrong, all right? I think I understand what’s happening here, but I am worried about how to manage it. There will be rules and boundaries, some non-negotiable. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know what they are, though.”

“Well, let’s start with something simple. You’ve been having a hard time focusing at work; not just this week, but most of this season. You were a different creature almost, last year. Something has changed, and now I think I know what it is, but you’re going to get us all in trouble if it keeps up. Do you think that’s a fair estimation?”

An embarrassing one, but, “Yeah. Fair enough. I’m sorry about that.”

“Not as sorry as you will be if you get fired for spacing out all the time. You need to focus on work, Richard. While you’re there, _we need_ one hundred percent of your attention. Whatever has been building up has to be cleared away.”

Richard was going to bite clean through his bottom lip at this rate. “I know. I’m—I will. That…that’s—”

“That’s partly why you’re here. I get that.” James took a deep breath and pushed damp strands of hair off his forehead. “That’s rule number one. If you break it any further, and if things don’t improve, what’s starting right now will end quickly. And I don’t think Clarkson will be able to save you next time.”

“Okay.”

“What is rule number one?”

Richard barely resisted the urge to squirm like he used to in school. “Stop fucking up at work.”

“It doesn’t matter what I do. You are only responsible for you, no matter what I’m doing. And what I’m doing is partly why you’re cocking it up so badly, isn’t it?”

A triumphant _something_ blared in Richard’s head, and his sanity solidified just a hair, even if the blurt of laughter he made sounded anything but sane. James’ right cheek twitched, the absolute _wanker_.

“You—James, I didn’t—I thought I was going off! That— _why_ —”

James stopped him with a hand up. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

It _did_ , because Richard was insatiably curious, and if James had been flirting with him this whole time, like…like _that_

because of _this._

It was exhilarating and terrifying by turns to think James had read him, even made a good _guess_ about this—and that Richard had been right as well. To come to James. But maybe this had nothing to do with it, maybe James had _just_ been flirting. Why else would he have seemed so shocked, before? But had he been, _really_? It hadn’t taken any explanation from Richard other than being on his knees, but—but

Richard’s mind was spinning and he covered his mouth, then his eyes with both hands and whatever James had picked up on or not, the thought was bright and happy and clear in his head that James was currently _letting him_ _hide_

“Rule number two, Richard,” James said. Paused, until Richard brought his hands down, could control his face again; the way it had spazzed against his palms, paroxysms of laughter and rage and relief—and then James made him jump by snapping his fingers right in front of Richard’s face, too close to even focus on. James did it again and Richard had to fight not to lean away from it, loud and almost on the tip of his nose. He uncrossed his eyes and looked up at James.

“If you hear me snap, I want you to stop whatever you are about and _look at me._ I want you to _listen_ to what I say, _do_ what I tell you, _go_ where I want. I won’t abuse it, and I won’t use it at work unless I have to.”

Richard squinted at him.

“Just trust me. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” emphatically so. But, “Wh…what if, ah, what if I don’t…listen?”

“Then you’ll be punished, won’t you?”

It was stupid to scoff, look incredulous—it was kneejerk, really. He was a grown man and even his mother hadn’t been able to punish him as a _boy_ well enough to keep him from being a rascal

and this was the hard part, wasn’t it? To let go of… _normal_.

James shifted and Richard thought he was going to be slapped, and maybe James thought it too, but then his mouth tightened into a hard line and he nearly flung himself back into his chair, out of reach.

It took Richard a few seconds to realise he was finally looking James in the eye again. Those crazy eyes of his; Richard was very good with colours and he might have cataloged (for personal reasons; artistic ones) at least six different shades of blue there, from the midnight blue outer rings to the ruddy-sometimes-icy blue near his pupils. There was savoy and Spanish and even fluorescent at the right angle, but now, hooded and back-lit, they were Delft if anything. Almost black, and James never hid a glare, did he?

His hands were in fists and Richard was suddenly very glad he hadn’t been given a demonstration. Then he flinched a little when James sat forward again. This time he did clasp his hands together.

“I’m going about this wrong. Richard,” he said, “what do you want?”

Richard was already on his knees, and…and James wanted to know, and that was more than Richard had ever had. He still might not like what he heard, if Richard could get it _out_ , but when was he ever going to have this opportunity again?

So, “I want to be hurt,” he said to the worn denim on James’ left knee. “I want _you_ to hurt me, and I want you to get off on doing it. I want to be used—”

“Used? What do you mean by that?” James interjected. He shifted impatiently, and _that_ was not what Richard wanted _at all_. James had _that look_. Empty, Richard had thought, a long time ago, standing before James but feeling completely unseen. Like James tuned out—or into his own murder fantasy, Jeremy added, mumbled so the man wouldn’t hear him…just in case.

Richard might have felt invisible, but never threatened, and _he’d_ looked at James a thousand times; looked at him and _thought_

“I want you to fuck me,” but aloud now, to James, still with those abyssal eyes, but Richard held them even though his heart had revved so hard at his own words blackness was tinging the corners of the room. “I want to be hurt, and fucked. I want you to use me however you want. I-I-I know, I know I piss you off and—but some of it I _have to_ —”

“I know the difference,” a murmur, but James didn’t move, so Richard babbled ahead. “You can take it out on me later. Or do it,” Richard sucked his bottom lip against his teeth, swallowed hard and he wasn’t going to _cry_ — “uh…because you want to.”

The last word wasn’t much of one, and suddenly Richard’s head hurt terribly and his ankles were sore from his position and he could sleep for a _year_ if the world would let him. He shut his eyes. He could never really _read_ James anyway; he knew enough not to get _too_ close to him—his body gave him away: flinching, fidgeting, coiling up tight, that curious blinking, but if he was still… Those eyes; there was nothing, and in less than a hundred words, Richard had exposed the core of himself to them, and, and _nothing_

it was nothing, he was nothing.

“How do you want to be hurt?”

“Aye?” He was breathing too fast or maybe not at all because he tripped over even that noise.

“You must’ve thought about it. Fantasised.” James put on a marginally impressed face. “There’s a lot out there. Fetishes and kinks. What is it you like?”

“Oh. Oh, I…don’t…know. I-I’ve never…”

James put his hand up. “You’ve never _actually_ engaged in BDSM?”

Richard shook his head, feeling like a key light was entirely too close to him. James didn’t even try to mask his nervous blinking this time. He put his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest and studied Richard, and oh, God, he knew that look too.

“Hang on. How do you even know you want…well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? How do you know if you’ve never done it?”

This was easy; he’d questioned it himself a million times. “Same way you knew you wanted to have sex before you’d ever done it.” Technically, Richard had recognised this side of himself even before that had happened, but one was apparently much easier to realise than the other.

“It’s really like that for you?”

“Yeah. It really is.”

“If it’s so important, why only _now_?”

Richard sighed. It was such an obvious question—but…but James really wanted to know, and Richard owed him that much, at least.

“It’s not ‘only now’. I didn’t have time, or, or… It’s just… _life_ , James. I had to—to do what I’ve done and—”

And that was all James wanted, apparently. He waved Richard off. “Fine. I know—I understand. But, _how_ shall I hurt you? I can think of ways, but I can’t leave marks on you, can I?”

Something much like swallowing broken glass happened in Richard’s chest. It was grief, but he wouldn’t look at it that closely. Refused. He was getting too much to want more. “N-no. No, you can’t. She—she _can’t_ know. James, she mustn’t know, and that’s… That’s asking so much from you.”

“It really is.”

“I know. I’m—you don’t have to. I mean, obviously, but if that—if that’s too much… You and she are friendly and, and—”

One snap; Richard shut his mouth and rolled wet eyes away from those still-creeping corners and back to James.

“Very good,” and Richard swayed, unbelieving. “She won’t know. Mindy won’t know, not from me, at least. But you understand how dangerous that is, don’t you?”

All he could do was nod, fire licking down his neck and chest, withering his arms, making his palms drip as fear consumed him.

“You’ve kept what you just told me from her, haven’t you?”

“I—yes. I mean… She wouldn’t—”

“How do you know? Did you ask her to hurt you?”

“Well, we—we talked… I brought it up, but—in passing, to see what she thought and, and she said she didn’t understand why anyone would do—it.”

“If she _would_ , you wouldn’t be here, then?”

Guilt was gasoline poured over his head, and a cinder couldn’t reply. There were paths he never went down. There was no sense resenting his wife for not understanding something so twisted as this, or driving himself completely insane imagining a life where she _did._

And…he couldn’t answer it honestly, anyway.

James slid his heels on the floor, moving one shoe towards Richard, the other back, widening his legs and Richard panted out, hard. He could smell James: cigarettes and shop dust; beeswax and engine grease, and whatever it was he wore on his skin, what Richard could smell coming through the tacky retard jumpers he insisted on donning, sitting next to James in the hot studio; an autumn breeze whipping it through the car.

James cocked his head. “Are you bisexual?”

The answer came out like someone else was thinking for him, and bless that man. “I went to art school, James.”

James’ lips pressed into a thin line and Richard thought he might actually laugh, but he merely wobbled his head.

“Do you actually fancy _me_?”

And like spotlights, Richard’s eyes wandered where he’d only dared himself to go and always chickened out. He knew he was cute or whatever, and even Jeremy was handsome when he kept his fucking horrible mouth shut and wasn’t slouching around like some tea-stained Grendel, but James

“You’re all right,” Richard said, mouth numb around it, and was flashed those wolf’s teeth from that tight bow of a mouth. Capable, thick-long fingers wiped over a smile, captured it, rubbed at the corner of one of those sorcerer’s eyes before pushing strands of star-streaked hair from his temple to behind his ear. He hunched his shoulders in, but when he stood straight in the sunlight next to the track outside the hanger, they were broad. Strong, like his back, his wiry arms, his long thighs. He looked soft, and he was in places, but Richard had seen—and _felt_ , he allowed himself only now—James’ power. He’d moved cars, hauled on equipment

had lifted him a foot off the ground, easy.

Built like a work-horse, but without the temperament.

 _Mean_ , Richard’s brain cheerfully supplied. James could be fucking _mean_. There was constant teasing amongst the three of them—the whole crew, really, but there were boundaries there that background characters didn’t often cross. But he and James and Jezza bickered and took the piss and embarrassed on purpose and James’ filter sometimes broke. He said shit that couldn’t be taken back, laughed off. Jeremy even confided, in a tone that said he wasn’t _really_ serious—but he was, Richard knew he was serious when he said, “That man scares me. Legitimately terrifying at times. He won’t stab you in the back at least. It’ll be your face and a tire iron if it comes.”

“ _Your_ face, not mine,” Richard had corrected, and then turned away from Jeremy’s second-glance because Richard… He’d known, all those months ago now, he’d _known_. What he was going to do. What he was _doing_ , and his response had been from that other man, too, the one who was clever and confident and had a plan.

More like a vanishing point.

“Why do you want me to hurt you?”

“W-what?”

“You don’t just want me to fuck you, you want me to hurt you. Why does that matter?”

 _Why_? Wasn’t it enough to say that he did? He just _did_.

“I…” He drew his brows together and shivered—shook his head.

“Why do you _need_ it, then?”

“I-I-I don’t…know.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not! I don’t know _why_ I’m— _like this_!” Okay, fine, so he was going to cry, just a bit, felt his eyelashes wet and clinging and he brushed his face against his arm, and wouldn’t it be nice to fold over and _die_ right here at James’ feet without having to explain himself any further. But it wasn’t _James_ with this—this _thing_ inside him, eating away at his soul. Who could possibly understand it in one take?

He dropped his arm and slitted his sore eyes open. “I’ve always _needed_ it,” he said, not bothering to gloss over the bitterness. “But I _really_ don’t know _why_.”

James was too-quiet; waiting, fingers tapping nonsense code into his own leg and Richard sighed all at once, lulled. But then those fingers curled to snap, and he didn’t want to feel reprimanded. He could be good; James was looking right back at him when Richard quickly lifted his eyes. There was no anger there, or irritation. James threaded his fingers together instead and asked, “How do you feel when you need it, then?”

“Oh. Oh, well. It makes me…” He shook again. “I…I can’t _think_ beyond it, sometimes. I feel mental. Just out of my head if I can’t… And I _can’t_ , I can’t do…anything. And it won’t leave me alone for, for days, or… I can’t concentrate, I get irritated at everyone. I feel like—” He laughed at himself, at fate. “Like a tiny mouse in a big jar. I go around and around and everything’s fine until I realise the walls of the jar are there and I scrabble at them and get _nowhere_ , but I can’t stop until… Unless there’s a fight, or _someone_ gets hurt, or I do something I regret, and I can’t drink it away or shag it out of my system and be grateful for what I have. You—you made it _worse_! You _know_ ,” Richard said— _accused_ , and great, just talking about it riled him up. “You _saw_ , the other day.” He clenched his fists, his jaw popping as he gritted through it, “I couldn’t stop it, can’t _control_ it. It’s _inside_ me and it takes over and—it’s worse now than ever before and, and—”

his whole body was trembling and he _wanted_

he _had_ : hurt himself, tried to find it and kill it with alcohol and coke and recklessness and marriage and too much to do and not enough of him to go around and still it held onto him like a fucking jackdaw with something useless but shiny.

He stared up at James, glaring probably, but James didn’t seem perturbed. He considered Richard for a long moment, took in his white knuckles, his bared teeth. Richard had lots of practice being stared at but this was so, so different.

He’d been wrong before, thinking James wasn’t seeing him. Richard understood that very suddenly. And James _wasn’t_ angry with him, bored or disgusted. His impatience had little to do with Richard; they each had their natures.

James shifted again and this time he touched Richard. Just the side of his shoe against Richard’s right knee, but Richard felt…like he’d been drowning, down so deep, struggling to the surface for an eternity, and now he—wasn’t anymore. He was still in danger, a speck in all that vastness, and the _waves_

James had his hand out, palm up, and Richard could reach for it, take it—

James said, “You think finally acting this out will give you more control over yourself, is that it? And you just took a gamble I’d play along?”

“…Yes. I _had_ to.” He hadn’t to say _that_ , though. He shook his head at himself, and then shut himself inside of it. “I don’t mean—”

“Yes, you do. It’s fine, Richard.”

And he definitely didn’t want to say, “If I could dig it out, I _would_ —” like that half-drowned man burbling up water.

“There’s no need for that. I doubt you can help it, and while I can appreciate the fervour of religious self-mutilation, I don’t believe it’s terribly useful in this situation. You need someone else to hurt you for it to do any good.”

Richard stared at him. If he moved, he might vomit. It all sounded so, so stupid when it was fed back to him.

“Just so I’m clear: you’ve never had anyone else do this to you?”

“Not…on purpose.” Richard looked down at his own hands; the light scratches on his gold wedding band glinted dully back at him. “It’s… I’ve been in fights or, or sometimes someone…does something to me—”

“For example?”

Jeremy Clarkson was like a perpetual sore thumb in Richard’s brain, but he’d accepted that. The man was _literally_ larger-than-life and had saved Richard’s ass multiple times now, and so he wasn’t going to throw him under the bus

even though he’d already left bruises on Richard: his arm, his wrist, had given Richard a hollow gut and a gawping mouth when Jeremy had strong-armed bigger men than Richard straight out of the studio, forced them to lie on the floor with just a command.

Had looked Richard right in the eyes and said, “You should call me ‘my master’.”

Richard _couldn’t_. And not…not because—

He couldn’t ruin Jeremy. Jezza would take him seriously, Richard believed that much, but if something _happened_ …if they were found out… Richard could take the hit (would even deserve it), and James had so little to lose, really (and Richard didn’t feel too harsh thinking that, looking around), but Jezza was living his dream, had worked so hard his entire life to get to where he was and it was by his grace and insistence and his taking responsibility that James and Richard were there next to him, and Richard would _not_ repay that debt by dumping his fucked-up desires and personal life in the man’s lap.

And it’s not like he was Richard’s first choice—

“Hammond. Like what?”

“Um… Jason. Dawe, he—he grabbed my face. It wasn’t rehearsed; I mean, we were barely scripting things at that point. And it—I _hated_ him. Fat fuck, I could smell sausage on his fucking fingers but, still… It caught me off-guard, you know? I _hate_ it, that you can see it on my face. He fucking—it rattled me right there on camera and—I try to keep distance from it, and, and it was only a second but it… I can’t control it.”

“You keep saying ‘it’. Like it’s not _you_.”

Richard said to his own knees, “It feels as if it isn’t, most of the time. Like, like I’m _possessed_ , or I’ve a monster inside me. Like it’s fucking Gollum; only wants one thing, no matter what _I_ want. If I’d _known_ it was going to happen, I would’ve been fine; prepared.”

And because he wasn’t paying attention, _again_ , a hand caught his jaw, lifted up his face and

everything inside Richard went to war.

He tried to jerk back, suddenly furious, but James was ready for that, had his other hand out and then cupped behind Richard’s head, keeping him in place. Those fingers on his jaw didn’t squeeze—just _stayed there_ , soft and chill against his skin, and whatever James was thinking wasn’t showing in his eyes but even if it had, Richard probably still would’ve felt he was being mocked, that James was teasing him, that he didn’t—that he _could never_ understand what Richard wanted, how he felt

because it was stupid

_so fucking stupid, you fucking idiot._

“Richard,” James said as Richard growled, “ _Don’t_ ,” and tried to shake James off again, tossed his head back but James went to the edge of his seat, kept his hands right where they were and Richard was somewhat shocked his own were still in his lap, like he wasn’t driving this thing any longer and a good job that because he felt like a knife was in his heart and he wanted to put it right in James’ too, for—for…

He didn’t know what.

“Don’t,” he said again, but this had less venom. And the next was really a plea: “Don’t, don’t fuck with me, James.”

“I’m not. Stop pulling,” because Richard was still leaning away and it took so much effort to relax his neck, to allow James to guide him upright again. Now there _was_ something in the look James was giving him, and it wasn’t derision, not with the way James moved one hand up the back of Richard’s skull, thumb dragging softly as if to learn the shape, and then he let go with that hand but kept the other on Richard’s jaw.

“I want you to forget he ever did that. He didn’t do what he did for _you_ ; I watched all of it, do you know? I did, and Jason might as well have had hearts circling ’round his head for you _and_ Clarkson. Embarrassing, really. But he didn’t know what he did when he grabbed you. He wasn’t even looking at you, after, was he?”

Richard tried to say ‘no’, but this time James pushed up, kept him from opening his mouth, so he shook his head instead.

“He didn’t know what he was doing to you. But I do. Now I do; now I know for certain. That’s why you’re agitated: you don’t want to be teased and then ignored, left to deal with how it makes you feel without an outlet. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Richard nodded into James’ firm hand. He felt faint and his breath whistled unsteadily through his nose.

“Forget that. Forget he touched you. No one else noticed it; it doesn’t matter. Remember _this_.”

A gentle shake from James, and then Richard was free.

And he realised how very much he did _not_ _want_ freedom.

And, oh, James knew it too. He was watching just the way Dawe hadn’t been

_had Jeremy?_

and Richard wondered—but did _not_ want to _know_ —what James was seeing

(saucered pupils, a softly parted mouth, pulse fluttering fast at his throat, that neck and his cheeks gone pink, hands lax and receptive, but a faint tremor running up his spine in arrhythmic waves).

James put his own chin in his hand again and gave Richard a genuine, if crooked, smile. Like Richard had done something amusing.

“What are you feeling right now?”

_distraught embarrassed confused full of regret_

_elated_

“Uh, my heart is pounding. A bit dizzy?”

James’ eyebrows went up. “Do we need to stop?”

“No! Um, no, no—”

“All right. But those aren’t feelings, those’re physical sensations. What _feelings_ are you having?”

“Oh. I feel…”

_Oh god._

“Aroused, and, and—”

And he was, his dick hard and bundled down tight between his legs

“And a bit nervous, too. But…safe? It doesn’t make sense,” he said hurriedly, because he needed to; he knew his feelings were weird, asinine and incongruous.

But James nodded like it was all perfectly acceptable.

“Let me ask you: what would you have wanted to happen, if you had been touched like that somewhere more private, by someone else, someone you liked?”

It was startlingly difficult to imagine anyone but James—as if telling Richard to _forget_ had made it so.

No, no, there were still a few memories laser-etched into Richard’s makeup at this point but now was not the time to examine them, and so, fine—

James, then, at a pub, somewhere dark, almost empty and near-to-closing, nowhere to be once it was, and—all the places James had touched him so far flared to life like glyphs on his skin

_hands throat head cheek jaw wrist chest (heart)_

Richard gasped and opened eyes he hadn’t known he’d closed. “I don’t know.”

Still relaxed, chin in hand, James said, “If you say that one more fucking time I’m going to thrash it out of your vocabulary completely.”

“But I _don’t kn_ —”

James grabbed for him like before, jaw and the back of his head, but the first hand lifted and came down across his mouth in a sharp slap while the other kept him from reeling away. Another slap, not too hard but over his lips against his teeth it was very painful and James hadn’t been lying. A flurry of slaps against his mouth and James changed his grip up to Richard’s hair when he tried to lunge forward, then to one side, anything to dodge the pain.

Nowhere to go without losing a handful of hair and his own fucking hands were still just doing nothing—though they did catch him when James relented, ten strikes in. Shoved Richard slightly to one side to give him something to do while James settled back in his chair, and then one went to his sore mouth, the other holding him up.

“I imagine you’ll learn to believe me in time, but that’s your first lesson. I mean what I say, and I will follow through. Do you understand?”

He almost nodded but it was his mouth what got him in trouble so, “Yeah—yes. I do. I…I’m sorry.” His lips felt hot, puffy. James was unruffled but for those eyes jumping between Richard’s mouth and his traitor hands.

And he was still waiting for a proper answer. Richard made him wait a few seconds longer while he wiped at his bottom lip with the back of one hand, then: “It’s not about what happens… It’s about how I feel. How—how y- _you_ feel. What happens doesn’t matter, I guess. I haven’t got scenarios in mind, because I never let myself think that far ahead.”

“That’s fair enough. But then, what do you feel when something _does_ happen? Wait—you _actually_ don’t know, do you?” James chuckled quietly, the irony apparent. “You’ve never been even this far. Fine, fine. You said ‘fights’, though. Was what happened at your place on Saturday a fight? How did you feel, after, when we were outside?”

Richard explored the inside of his lips with his tongue but didn’t find any cuts from his teeth, which was good

_disappointing._

“I felt…calm. Scared, but yeah, calm. I felt—relieved. Like…like at that point I didn’t have to worry about anything, that—that you were…were in control of it.”

“Hm. ‘It’ again. I think ‘it’ _is_ you, as much as any other part of your personality. It feels foreign, monstrous, because you’re unfamiliar with it. Because you’ve tried, and mostly succeeded, in suppressing it. You’ve probably never walked it all the way home, so to speak.”

None of that was a question, so Richard sat there and looked at James looking at him until his nerves proved themselves coward and he blinked down to the floor instead.

“Did you have a hard time waiting for this? Waiting for me to talk to you about it?”

He almost shrugged one shoulder—instead: “I was nervous, but there wasn’t anything to do about it.”

“You could have confronted me first.”

_Definitely not._

“But you didn’t,” James said, speculative, and Richard peeked under his brows up at him. James slouched down in his chair, hands clasped across his belly, his ever-narrowed eyes showing mere slivers of cobalt. “You waited because _I wanted_ you to. Did you enjoy that part of it? Did that make it easier?”

Heat tingled across Richard’s face. “Well… Yes, I suppose.”

“Did you prepare yourself? Did you think about what you might say to me?”

Richard shook his head, resisted the urge to rub at his eyes again. “No, not really. I… I didn’t want to have any expectations.” An odd breath of a laugh escaped him and James raised an eyebrow. “I _say_ that, but I did. I-I wanted—just whatever _you_ wanted,” he rushed out.

James said nothing for—too long and Richard suddenly realised what a tremendous burden he had brought to James, and—and _for what_? What was James going to get out of it? It hadn’t really occurred to Richard to ask

as if _he_ were enough, worth it: the effort, the danger.

“You derive pleasure and a sense of peace from being hurt, forced, or controlled,” James prompted, and it took Richard considerable time to focus enough to answer, and anyway, it felt like he was being told what to do.

“Yes. It’s weird—”

“And it sexually arouses you.”

Richard nodded, wilting. His eyes burned, and he was _trying_ , but fatigue was a heavy blanket on his shoulders and he rubbed at his cheek, touched his ear; it felt hot against his skull. The other did too, and he sighed.

James snapped his fingers, muffled against his thigh. Richard opened his eyes. “Oh. I—”

“When’ve you last slept?”

“I…sleep. Willow and, and—”

James stood and Richard had nowhere to go; warm denim brushed his chin as he looked up the line of James’ body. The toe of his soft leather shoe nudged between his knees and then James was away across the room. The black kitten he had still not named appeared from under the vacated wingback. It ruffled its fur up, shedding dust and long stray hairs. It gave Richard a condescending look before turning to sit like a little liquorice lump to watch James disappear into a room Richard somehow hadn’t noticed was even there.

Banging, rustles, a loud rasp of dragged metal, a click and hum of the radiator coming on, and the kitten had more balls still than Richard; scampered closer, stalking the noise, braving the unknown. …But that wasn’t really it. Richard stayed where he was because James hadn’t told him he could move.

The kitten shot out of the room at full speed, James following much more leisurely, and it was _different._ Being on his knees like he was, James coming at him. He gave it away too, staring up at James, and up; James came so close and Richard was _staring_. He closed his eyes, still with his head up, his throat exposed.

And then James just stood there. Without opening his eyes, Richard said, “James, what?”

“When are you expected home?”

There wasn’t anything else to do but tell an important truth. He cracked one eye open. “I’m not. I could leave, but…I won’t go home tonight.”

“Where would you go if I didn’t want you here?”

_Nowhere._

He almost said he didn’t know (fast learner, and he wouldn’t lie); he sighed and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t keep this up—he _would_ , if James wanted him to, but not…not if he was going to be sent away. James wouldn’t do that though, would he? Not after everything that just happened. But James hadn’t said—what _had_ he said?

_what’s starting right now_

Oh.

Warmth; that dark shadow cast over him again, a strong grip on his chin, his face tilted back up and even if he’d _had_ fight left in him, he wouldn’t have used it. James inspected his mouth for any lingering signs of abuse. Richard licked over his bottom lip, and James said, “Stand up,” but didn’t let go of his face.

There was no space between them for Richard to rock forward, James wouldn’t let him lean back, so Richard bent his toes in his sneakers and asked his knees to do their best, and James helped: hauled him up by his jaw until they were face to face—well, okay, that was generous. His eyes just level with James’ mouth, twisted tight again, and it flashed on Richard this might be the look that Jeremy caught from James a lot, and why it was unsettling.

He swallowed, his throat clicking against James’ palm. “Have I done something?” He almost bit his cheek saying it with the way James was digging into him.

“What? Hammond, I’m not your fucking boyfriend. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. Besides, you said for me to ‘take it out on’ you. So, don’t ask stupid questions.”

He tried to give James apologetic eyes, to nod

to not feel sort of hurt himself, baffled

but James bore down harder on him, and harder, until Richard made that noise again, the one from the hallway in his house, and that was apparently what James had been waiting for. He pushed off Richard, launched himself back into his chair. He tugged on a piece of hair curling just above his collar. 

“Take your clothes off. All of them.”

“Um—”

James snapped and Richard pouted before he could stop himself, already _hating_ that noise.

“Don’t talk. Do as I tell you.”

There wasn’t anything to do but just that, then. No expectations (but one, admitted to), stunted desires, glanced at fantasies—and Richard was suddenly glad of all that he’d denied himself and avoided because that first thing was most important right now:

what James wanted.

But…Richard didn’t know _anything_ about it, not even what experience James had, what _his_ fantasies were

_so, selfish on top of stupid?_

“Richard.” An obvious warning.

A deep breath, held, and he went for the buttons of his shirt.

“No. Shoes first, shirt last.”

Richard had a feeling there was something to that order, but it wasn’t his place to guess about it, and oh, that _was_ weird.

He squatted down, putting his chin on his knee; made short work of the laces and socks stayed in the shoes. Still crouched, he took his watch off too, then flattened his feet against the chill floor and straightened up, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans before popping those buttons. He hooked his thumbs into his boxers but James said, “One at a time.”

_Come peel me yourself if you’re so picky._

Richard ducked his head to hide his smile. This might all be even harder than he’d (barely) considered if he was already being cheeky. But maybe James would be amused by it—but probably not. Clarkson was the one that laughed at nearly everything Richard said, pathological, while James often watched them giggling like he sort of wished they were on fire.

His pants dropped, puddled around his ankles. “Leave it,” James instructed when Richard bent to gather and fold them, so he stepped over them, towards James.

_If that kitten pisses on them, I’m going to be right cross._

And then he stopped, his fingers picking at the hem of his shirt that just covered his underwear. Something was wrong. He was starting to worry again, make commentary in his head. …Think about _Jeremy_.

Richard brought his eyes back up, and _there_ was that anxiety shot—like James was going one way and the room another and if Richard even _moved_ , he’d get his feet swept out from under. He took a long, full breath through his nose but the air was too thin, so he dragged in more; more, through his open mouth

The snap sounded like a gunshot, and James’ voice came through a wet mic; Richard wasn’t positive what James said but—but he _needed_

hands on him, his hips, under his shirt, that exploratory thumb running along the elastic of his boxers.

“You’re a mess,” he heard and couldn’t argue that either. James’ hands were hot now—or was Richard very cold? They felt good against his skin, even skimming up his ribcage and it might have tickled if he’d actually been in his body but no, he was a step back and to the left. Watched himself staring dully at James who, thankfully, wasn’t looking back. Wasn’t seeing the footballer smudges under his eyes, the ghastly paleness of his lips. He had to feel Richard shaking though as those hands came together over his stomach and then slid up, dragging shirt along with them. To his chest, and Richard popped back into himself when James ground the heels of his hands there, across Richard’s nipples. Rough palms scratched him, edges of thumbnails felt cutting-sharp.

“Behind you, hold your wrists.”

Richard’s hands didn’t want to do that, were fine sort-of grabbing onto James’ hands through his shirt, but he _had_ to let go as James knocked his legs wide with his own and he tipped forward. James kept him from falling onto him, and Richard wasn’t fighting—he just didn’t _understand_

James kicked at him, brought a knee up almost into his groin, and then Richard remembered he probably didn’t _need_ to understand when James broke loose three of the buttons at the bottom of Richard’s shirt jamming both arms up under it to Richard’s shoulders and yanked him down. Didn’t let him fall too hard; closed his legs around Richard’s thighs as he dropped between them, squeezed his hips and then crushed his ribs until Richard wheezed out his breath, trapped.

Those legs loosened somewhat, gave him room now to, “Put your fucking hands behind you. I won’t tell you again.”

Unplanting them from James’ thighs was easier, and the air had more substance here, shared. He wriggled

_do it do it you don’t want to know you don’t want to hear that sound the next one will blow a hole in your head_

Thighs clamped around him again as if he would escape—he _wouldn’t_ and it bothered him that James might not believe that. Even if he’d chickened out of the whole thing, _running_ from James had never been an option. But then, it might not be about that—

Fuck, he hated not knowing what to do. It was absurd to have started this, to have brought this to James without knowing… _anything_. He gripped his own arms; he could be patient, he could learn—they could learn this _together._ …Unless James decided he hated it and

and then what.

“Come here.”

He already _was_ —but then James bunched Richard’s torn shirt up high and wrapped both hands around his throat. Thumbs under his jaw, hands angled in so the sides immediately cut across blood flow, and Richard had never felt _delicate_ in his whole life until that moment. He could still breathe and gasped to make sure, but in two seconds, the will to try it again disappeared, replaced by an all-over numbness.

“Don’t let go,” and that wasn’t James’ voice. Tinny, distorted, far away, and Richard tried desperately to open his eyes because it _must_ be James because

“Good boy.”

it was close; he felt breath on his eyelashes and then

free fall, backwards, his whole body buzzing.

Utter shock at finding himself still upright

convulsing, shaking like he was laughing.

He hauled in a breath but it tripped and came back out hysterical. He thought to cover his mouth but one hand was still locked in a death-grip to the other wrist and James said, “Good boy,” again and this time when his hands closed around Richard’s neck, there was pain, lancing through his head just over his ears, behind his eyes and why couldn’t he _see_? He shook his head frantically—thought he was, at least, and this time, his arms dropped and now he could pry James’ hands off of him

if only he had a body to command at all.

Just a tiny spark of consciousness floating in that sea. No waves, not now, and the water was perfectly warm and gentle and caressing; sensual and intimate as it lapped at him, liquid ecstasy draining into his mouth, his ears, covering his eyes and puddling over his groin, injected in his spine and dripping like hot rain _everywhere_ else, reforming him like filling a mould.

“Very—your _hands_ —” and Richard wanted to obey but James huffed and choked him again. The pain behind his eyes was so sharp he bucked hard to escape it but the prison of James’ legs, those crushing hands, kept him right there and Richard heard himself make a noise

he _begged._

It wasn’t words, neither his mind nor his body capable of that anymore. A squeak, some pathetic gurgling rasp that went on and on until he stopped it with his own hands and he didn’t understand what he was seeing. James yanked his wrists back behind him again, then dragged his now-open shirt from his shoulders but not off his arms.

“Hold onto it,” and Richard was surprised

that he could do it, knotting his fingers in the cloth

that he could _hear_ again, feel his own body

that James had his dick out and holy _shit_

“Open—open your _mouth_ ,” and those words were still a bit distorted and why did James sound frustrated?

Fingers at his face, pinching his bottom lip, a thumb pressed to his gums, fingernails scrabbling at his teeth and oh, his jaw was clenched tight and it was an effort to let loose but the moment he did, James’ fingers were inside him. Tobacco and salt, and Richard’s tongue flicked, exploring with a mind of its own, saliva flooding between those big fingers and over his bottom lip and

more when James hooked him like a fish behind his lower teeth and pulled him forward

dripping down on that cock, huge, like James’ _wrist_ , veined and pale the same too; curving towards Richard.

James tugged once more on his bottom jaw ( _unnecessary_ ) and his fingers slipped out—and then James scooted back, away, left Richard gaping and he would have protested had his throat not been so sore, felt crushed almost but James was only moving to make it easier to make it worse. Sticky fingers on his forehead and Richard put his tongue out—and realised his mistake as James pushed his cock over it, squashed it so it dug into his teeth. Richard winced and James made a low noise, let himself slip back so Richard could adjust

he couldn’t, he never really would. James was just too big.

Richard had a big mouth (and his own big dick, for his size anyway, thank you very much) but James still stretched his lips until they stung. Hit the back of his mouth and plugged it, the head fat and with just enough give that it kept going when Richard leaned into it—and then coughed, and James made that sound again, encouraging, but it was difficult without his hands to balance him, to grab that huge thing and pull himself onto it and he glanced up at James, wanting

and James gave it to him. Both hands on the back of Richard’s head, he pulled and the chair creaked as he lifted his hips at the same time and oh fuck, it _hurt_. Tears came to Richard’s eyes immediately as his body rejected what was being done to it. Tried to, at least; his stomach heaved once and he was grateful he hadn’t eaten anything substantial—in days, right. He tried to cough again but only managed to make gross noises around James’ cock, and he _could_ breathe, barely, through his nose but not enough to _last._

“Shh.” James pushed-pulled him a little more. “This won’t take long,” and fucking _good_ , because Richard was fighting another heave and James was still nudging _in_ , in in in but Richard was nowhere near the base of it.

“I’ve saved this for you. Haven’t come since Saturday, wanted you—” James growled and tilted Richard’s head to one side and _that_ felt _insanely good_ , his throat twisting from the inside to accommodate and he could barely see James’ face

lax, tongue pressed against his bottom teeth, eyes trimmed in blue, and then they fluttered closed, rolled up behind long lids and

too too much, the pressure would break him

and James wasn’t even being _rough_ ; just holding him there.

“Wanted you to have it.”

James’ hips twitched up again and Richard was too small for the rest of it

_oh fuck fuck no_

but then James put his palm to Richard’s face; _pushed_ , and like uncorking yesterday’s wine, some resistance

_going to turn inside out_

and then he could breathe, swallow

bitter chlorine, raw cocoa, and James was still jetting come and Richard’s mouth was still open—wider, then, but James shifted and painted his cheek and the bridge of his nose, his upper lip and Richard would think he smelled it for days after, then James dipped back into his mouth again, the last of it drizzling down his aching throat.

“Bloody hell,” came out slow, shaky and Richard tried to open his eyes but James covered them suddenly—not quite, he was…gathering it, wiped it over Richard’s lips, rubbed come into his skin, cleaned his fingers on Richard’s tongue and kept his thumb in Richard’s mouth, not minding the froth and drool that ran down his wrist, and his other hand was rolling his balls, digging up under them, pressing hard, and then he coaxed another large dollop of come out of himself, let it drip from his fingers onto Richard’s mouth just to make him lick it up, lick his fingers, suck it in with that thumb still there.

Richard wanted to collapse—his back hurt, and his neck, bent like he was, his knees bruised.

He also wanted to crawl up onto James and beg to be touched because he was _so_ hard and flushed all over, could feel it like a fever; he dropped his head, rubbed his cheek against James’ hand because it was cool again and

James snatched his hand away like Richard had bitten him; he was slapped sharply but caught by the hair when he recoiled. Richard yelped, startled, but didn’t resist when James hauled him upright on his knees, kept his hands tangled in his shirt behind him.

James had the most awful expression on his face, like Richard was something rotten, utter trash dangling there and that heat evaporated all at once, left him paralyzed, cold, a sick, roiling pain in his stomach and he should’ve _known_. James was looking at him like he was a mistake—everything about him; his mere existence. And why shouldn’t he? There was nothing good about what they’d just done—Richard had backed James into a corner anyway, forced this on him, appealed to his pity, his lust and loneliness; Richard knew James _was_ alone now but

but Richard wasn’t and—how could he expect James _not_ to despise him?

“S-stop,” he shuddered out, had to suck sticky come and his own slick saliva strings off his bottom lip. “I-I’m— _stop_ , James—” and then he was looking at the ceiling as James pulled his hair. Tears sped down the sides of his face, into his ears, and he sobbed, just once, when James let him go

would push him away in the next second.

He didn’t. Instead, James reached around him and tugged the shirt out of Richard’s grip.

“Bend over.”

“W-what?”

James yanked his hair again, shoved him between his legs. Richard’s face almost hit the front of the chair, no room for him, but James felt there was plenty apparently, stuffed Richard down and clenched his legs around him again.

“I told you not to talk.”

The first smack to his ass was _loud_ , but it didn’t hurt over his boxers. James leaned down, knees digging into Richard’s hips, and his aim never wavered: one cheek then the other in the exact same spot until, finally, it _did_ hurt. Went from a dull thud to tender to _burning_ ; like the material was going to break his skin, like it was sandpaper, James’ hand as hard as a board slamming down on him, jarring his bones and Richard twisted to block the next strike, could only grab onto James’ ankle instead

was shook off, lifted by an arm under his belly and tossed back, his damp palms squeaking on the floor, and then James’ shoe caught him in the ribs, knocked him over onto his side even though he heard, “Get up,” and, “Take them off.”

And when he couldn’t do it, lay there shocked and aching and his backside seared, James added, “You don’t want me to do it for you. _Get up._ ”

That weird feeling again—another person inside him taking over, empty-headed instead of clever. Well, maybe not quite empty… Curious, or, or… Oh.

_submissive_

He pushed himself to his knees, straightened his back, his fingertips on the floor. Surprisingly, he felt rather light as he lifted his head; nothing hurt anymore, and he cradled that realisation like something precious, prepared to let it go.

He looked over at James

and nothing changed.

At work, it had taken a while for James to loosen up enough to just…enjoy himself. And it had taken a while for Jeremy to learn to never point out when that happened; when, in a film, James’ face softened, he smiled so his cheeks rounded and that perpetual glare disappeared completely, when it was obvious his overtaxed leaf spring of a nervous system wasn’t near-to-snapping completely. Jezza—after Andy hammered him about it—would instead play up the crowd, laugh at things he already knew would be funny, do _anything_ other than call attention to James, in-film or on the bench next to Richard, because then James would stop doing it _for weeks_ , and Andy would be at his wits’ end trying to get _something_ out of him.

But it took nearly every ounce of Richard’s self-control not to turn to James and beam at him. To share in that delight, even a recording of it, because it was so utterly pure somehow. So genuine, and so, so rare. There was something about it, about James content or laughing, even just being _at peace_ , that made Richard want to celebrate it. It was…almost like a recovery. After an injury, an illness—seeing James truly happy was seeing someone doing something they never thought they’d do again.

It wasn’t exactly like James was fool’s-grinning at him now or anything, but there _was_ that softness to his face, his eyes, and they didn’t jump away when Richard met them—for a few seconds, anyway. Richard meant to retreat first, but it was such a relief James wasn’t still looking at him like he was actual dog shit that his timing was off and James clammed back up, lifted his chin like some haughty lord, hooded those milky eyes and leaned forward in his chair.

He hadn’t tucked his cock away; still wet, still so big, and James’ jeans were damp-dark at his thighs from Richard.

“Have you fucking gone deaf?”

Richard shook his head but had to scramble back in time, over half-dug graves to remember

_right._

He hoped James would forgive him for not gaining his feet entirely, but the impression of himself hitting the ground like a dizzy child kept him on his knees, though he raised up and slid the last of his clothing down his thighs, then dropped onto his stinging ass and pulled his underwear off his ankles and tossed them in the direction of the pile of everything else.

Naked (but for his wedding ring, and he _couldn’t_ ), only half-hard now—Richard realised then that it hadn’t been _him_ that James had hated, it was what he’d _done_ and

 _should have fucking known better_ , _stupid stupid_

“I quite like you like this,” James said very, very quietly. “Pretty blush up your chest and neck, all the way to your ears. Get on all fours.”

If he was pink-cheeked then just sitting there, he must be scarlet when doing as told, and Richard let his head hang. Leaned forward onto his hands again, scooted his knees out, kept his back straight. Tried not to tip over doing as James commanded: “Turn around.” Did it, but barely, his arms shaking and his mind blessedly blank

refusing to replay _I like you pretty I like you pretty._

Closed his eyes and—floated. Felt a tiny draft on his wrists from under the front door, heard distant traffic and children shouting down the street. Took in a deep breath—James’ house: curry spice, 10W/30 oil, old books and new paper, but also his own dried spit and James’ come; could still taste it, and Richard rolled his tongue around in his sticky mouth and it was fucking _weird_. Having James _inside him_ —and yes, all right, he knew there was so much more to that thought but _for now_

he’d barely even _touched_ James up to this point. He’d wanted to and…it would have been _normal_ to. Richard and Jezza were forever swatting at each other, shaking hands, patting backs, playing keep-away—okay, that was Jeremy’s game but Richard played it, grabbing at his arm, shoving him. Hell, Jezza had straight picked him up more than once. There must’ve been a few times with James, though? But…no. No, James had touched _him_ : that soft tap with the back of his hand, brushing against him as James put his arm on the back of the couch they shared during the news segment

like he was putting his arm around a date at the cinema, but not shy about it, and did it count that Richard had leaned against him on purpose and James usually didn’t move right away? It was one of the things that slowly began to drive Richard to distraction: he couldn’t invade James’ bubble, but James felt at ease in his. That Richard’s space wasn’t his own but he needed some kind of clearance to get into James’.

And now, to go from _that_ to _this_.

Oh, but he _had_ touched James. Grabbed that huge cock through James’ pants—and gotten his bell rung for his trouble. And that was it, wasn’t it? There was no password. James didn’t want to be touched. That kitten-rub against James’ hand and immediate reprimand was a lesson. An as-of-yet unspoken rule.

It was not that Richard minded being touched by James, or was irritated by the man getting into his space, pushing boundaries; it was normal to be reciprocal and James…was not normal. Richard could deal with that, though. It might even be easier this way. He had to remember to keep his hands to himself.

And most importantly

James’ shoes scuffed on the floor behind him and then those invading hands grabbed onto his hips and lifted slightly. Richard gasped but he let James drag him backwards a couple of feet. _Fuck_ , he was strong, and Richard tried to ease his own mind, remembered all the times he’d gone home peppered with bruises, especially on his legs and hips from crawling under hoods and chassis and knocking things about with his bodyweight. It was okay. No one would know the difference between those bruises and the ones James would leave with his fingertips.

A hand left his hip, pushed between his shoulder blades. Richard went down on his elbows without question (and with a nervous exhale that James had to have heard). It trailed down his spine and oh, there were places Richard was sore, tense, and it felt good, that tiny bit of pressure helped him to relax, breathe—one breath only because James said:

“Spread your legs. Ass up. I want to see you.”

His first instinct was to look over his shoulder but that was _not_ what James meant. Had obviously seen quite enough of Richard’s dumb face at that point. Still holding his breath, Richard slid his knees apart and experienced the curious sensation of his lower back arching naturally to go into that position for the first time.

Not exactly: he’d done this _many_ times, with Mindy under him, spidered around him, wet and tight and making the most beautiful sounds—and he’d never once thought about how vulnerable _he_ was.

He dropped his head onto the backs of his hands and he didn’t want to and did it anyway, looked down at himself

saw his hanging cock, hard again, tapping wet kisses on the floorboards; James’ leather shoes almost between his knees and Richard’s thighs were already straining and it was worse when James suddenly clenched both hands on his (probably still red) ass cheeks

and the fucking noise Richard made when James shook him like that, spread him apart even more. The shock of it, the embarrassment; the _pain_ as it stretched his asshole, like he’d ripped a little. He flipped his hands over and covered his own mouth.

“Don’t move.”

Trembling must’ve not counted because James let him do it. Might’ve even liked it with the way he hummed to himself. Richard heard it over the creak of the chair as James settled back into it again.

Heard loud and clear: “I’ve been with ladies with more hair than that,” and there was definitely an appreciative note to it. Then James said, “You’ve never had a man before. You look like you’ve never taken a _shit_ before.”

Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t tell him that was fucking stupid, there was no way James could know if he’d had anal sex before by _looking_.

He hadn’t, but _still_.

Then he broke the not moving rule when he felt James’ shoe on him. His knees came straight off the ground by an inch at least. He found himself up on his hands again, peering under his body; brown leather tip-tucked into his ball sac and now he didn’t have to tremble: James was doing it for him and Richard almost laughed. James _never_ stopped moving, was forever twiddling his thumbs, tapping his fingers, bouncing his leg, or like now, shaking his foot at the ankle. Shaking _Richard_ doing it and it felt _amazing_ —and punishment for the noise would be worth it at this point

that _other_ thinking for him again…and why not let it make the decisions?

Richard rocked back against James’ foot; felt the pull on his balls and James wriggled his toes in his shoe, lifting and then stretching Richard. Readjusted and dug into the soft hanging flesh near his taint and slowly dragged down; all the way off his balls and that almost hurt, the tread snagging on sensitive skin, but then James lifted his sac with the top of his shoe and straightened his leg more, letting Richard’s cock roll clumsily over and off one side. Did it again, and again, until Richard couldn’t help it; it didn’t even _sound_ like him

_it is you._

He whimpered. A noise he hadn’t made since childhood, and that was too much to think about and he wished immediately he hadn’t made it because James tensed

held still. But

…for _him._

One long leg over the other knee, ankle straight and his foot held just-so, and Richard tested it—himself, James, his own humiliation—and bucked his hips, sliding his cock over rough laces, the head of it catching on the sole; that almost-pain again. Flexed his thighs, lifted himself higher, balls dragging across the smooth leather tongue, the dangling laces, and the odd little wooden pieces at the ends pinched him slightly, made him flinch back up and do it again; and again and Richard hadn’t breathed properly since that baby-sound had escaped, but his lips were moving

_please please let me, let me show you, I’ll do anything._

_Anything_ that James wanted him to, to have _this_

mindless need, weird pleasure-pain, embarrassment and exposure and control and learning to behave the way James wanted. To not be himself.

 _It is you_.

His movements consolidated into quick rolls of his hips. He could feel the strain in James’ leg keeping still for him, just the right height, that burn of hot leather against the underside of his cock, and his breath that rattled wet from his throat; he couldn’t _believe_ he was going to come from just this

but it wasn’t _just_ anything; it was all of it and with his eyes closed he could see— _them_. James lounging as he did at work: not listening, plotting, being his incomprehensible self, but never with Richard on the floor, practically hanging off his foot, taut and panting and humping like a dog, _so close_

his fingernails scraped at the floor as something hot and long-hated and coiled up tight at the base of his spine started a slow release, spread like a grass fire down his thighs and up his sides to his chest, neck, his face and he threw his head back, gritted out something unintelligible and loud as he came

something cut off short as James dropped his foot away from Richard only to bring it back up rather hard, tapping him right square in his balls as they began to empty onto the floor.

Now he _couldn’t_ breathe. Couldn’t move or hear or see or even _feel_ —the pain registered but it was confused with the pleasure of release

but even _that_ was wrong somehow. Subtle contractions and the odd sense of his come…trickling from his dick and then a belated _throb_ from his balls, almost a cramp in his gut and he wanted to grab himself and

James did it again. Not hard, but hard enough and Richard collapsed, slid his knees in and curled his head down, dug his fingers into his hair and this time there was no stopping the whining, not with James kicking him like that, not with his own cock still rock hard and weeping against the soles of his feet and his blood rushing like a jet engine in his head, deafening him, keeping him from hearing James move.

Those iron hands lifted him by the throat and one armpit and hauled him onto his ass, dragged him back the few feet to James’ chair. Richard flailed—trying to go with it, but his heel slipped through his come and he sprawled uselessly backwards into the space between James’ legs again. He got his hands down, behind him, back arched, chest exposed and he could look up at James now. That cruel expression was back, but Richard hadn’t—he _hadn’t_ done anything bad this time, had he? Not _to_ James, and James would’ve stopped him if he’d wanted something different—

Like James knew what Richard was doing, that now-familiar pressure—too much with how he was positioned and he made it worse grabbing for James’ hand, lost his balance and slid down, was hung for

for long enough that when he came to, he didn’t know what was happening anymore, what that noise was

that it was _him._

James choked off the pathetic sounds and shoved them both forward, his knees hitting the floor hard but he kept Richard locked against him, almost on his back but for the way James held him suspended by his throat.

Above him, James said, “Rule number three: don’t ever fight me. If you do, you will get hurt— _I will hurt you_ , and you might have a hard time hiding it.”

And for Richard, that was the moment it became _real_. James wanted—all of this, whatever it was; everything Richard had said and done and exposed to him, _James wanted it._

Richard went limp so fast he would have crashed to the ground if James hadn’t held him up and he let James decide if he should breathe, should live through this, but he couldn’t help it: he thrust against nothing just to feel his neglected cock, his sore balls, to—to offer them to James; gave to him his need and trust and surrender

and James _felt it_ , made a low-throated snarl and answered with a hard roll of his hips against Richard and the pain of no air, his throat nearly crushed, pushed Richard somewhere he’d never been before and it was as good as his own— _better_ , even, when James’ cock throbbed as he came again, sticky-wet and hot up Richard’s spine. More pressure on his throat

Richard blinked, and again, before he could really see—and make sense of it. Where he was, what had happened, why James was sitting cross-legged next to him on the cold, hard floor, looking pleased with himself. Something warm and damp brushed across one of his palms, and James leaned over and cleaned his other hand, then tugged on his wrist.

“Can you sit up?”

He didn’t nod or answer—energy enough for one thing only. James pulled him until he was upright, and then that cloth swept over his back. He watched James fold it into a square after, pick a clean side, and then his face was gently wiped down.

“You’re still hard.”

Richard looked down at himself; back up to James. It wasn’t a question, and anyway, he didn’t have an explanation.

James wasn’t interested in one. “It’s always a bit embarrassing for me—more so with women, of course,” he mused, concentrating on cleaning Richard with the meticulousness usually reserved for dusting the inside of his Bently. “I always get over quick the first few times with someone new. Ready to go again in minutes, usually. It’s just nerves. Wears off after a while; I’ll have more control.”

Blinking, swallowing, breathing in and then out, that was all Richard was capable of, but he listened, understood, lifted his chin when James dragged the cloth down his neck. And then flinched when James chucked it past him towards the bathroom. James made a soft, amused sound.

“Don’t do that. You mustn’t build any bad habits around this. I want you brave. You are, you know. Very much so. To do what we do out there, and to do this, now. But I don’t want you scared of me, cringing like an abused dog.”

“I’ll try,” Richard whispered.

James considered him for a long moment. “You did well,” he said at last. “I enjoyed that very much.”

His eyes were still light, Arctic blue but for the twilight ring, cheeks splotched with colour, sweat beaded at the base of his throat. He’d tucked himself away this time and Richard was glad. He had not a brain cell left on-line, stared at James, worked up a tiny nod and hoped his own eyes were communicating _something_

because he felt wonderful. Tired, sore, disoriented, but…more than that

so _much_ more he didn’t even know the words for it, not now, so he could only look back, hope a smile was somewhere on his face

that his heart was on his sleeve.

“Come on. Can you stand?”

Not without help, but James was right there, balanced him and then led him by the upper arm to that room he’d opened earlier. The light stayed off and the shadows danced a bit as Richard stood where James stopped him. There was a writing desk sitting cockeyed in the middle of the room, a few file cabinets in a row under a high window—the moon was showing itself through it currently and Richard’s disorientation increased. It felt like only minutes ago that he’d taken that cigarette from James, but his body felt like he’d been running for _hours._

James appeared on his left, something shiny and clattering trailing from his hand, and there was no hiding a flinch when the cold chain touched his skin, but James had it around his neck and was already fussing with a padlock before Richard could do more than gasp and twitch back. A quick tug on the chain satisfied James that it was locked and then he used it as a leash to turn Richard towards a rickety, metal-frame cot against the wall behind the door. Another tug and Richard crawled onto it, under the soft blanket already there, and he heard James use another padlock to secure the chain to the nearby radiator. A small silver key was flashed at Richard before James put it on the desk.

“In case I die out there. Otherwise, I’ll release you when I’m ready. Do you understand?”

Richard nodded, then because it was so dark in the room: “Yeah. Yes, James.”

The chain was warm on his skin already but the weight of it still felt weird as he rolled onto his side. He immediately liked the tension; reminded him of James’ hands on him that first time in his hallway.

“You really feel this will be of help to you? That it will make your life easier, better somehow?”

There was uncertainty in James’ voice, in the way his silhouette shifted from foot to foot, scratched at his hairline, and Richard gathered the rest of his courage, all of his strength to reply, “I hope so.”

James sniffed. “It’s just a dopamine kick for your brain. You think too fucking much. You—never mind. I’ll give you what you want, but this won’t be easy, Richard.”

“I know,” Richard breathed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“Can I ask one thing?” Richard’s sight was finally adjusting and James looked made of pale clay in the weird light. He scanned around the small room then tilted his face upwards, the shadowed cut of his sharp jaw jumping as he clenched it. Almost as an afterthought, James nodded, deep and slow.

“Why tonight?”

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” James said. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in a bit.”

**Author's Note:**

> I coped with Supernatural coming to an end by reverting to my original hyper fixation, and my darling dreaminblue67 was kind enough to tag along, inspire me, and get a little fixated herself and I will never be able to repay her for going there with me.  
> Extra special thanks to [soulless-puppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_puppy/pseuds/soulless_puppy) for editing and letting me get excited about this all up in her chat. All mistakes are mine bc she's obviously perfect and I have a bad habit of changing things after she worked on it, and being very impatient.  
> Shout-out to my very own [hamstxr](https://hamstxr.tumblr.com/) for keeping me company in a tiny, old fandom and cheering me on.  
> Title from [I Don't Need a Hero by Concrete Blonde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRcehJl5p3o&list=PLuB2rGbcqG9nf8V4dykiOr3P8994raj8V&index=12)


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